


Lalochezia

by bobbiewickham



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:21:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/pseuds/bobbiewickham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre experiments with a new way of venting his rage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lalochezia

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt from tumblr user mamzellecombeferre.

Combeferre was not a vulgar man, nor was he an irritable one. He did not revel in the eloquent profanity of a Courfeyrac or a Bahorel; he never wore the telltale look of fierce self-control that Enjolras often displayed in the face of provocation. If Combeferre was angry, he said so quietly and directly to the person responsible, and explained the reason why.

Which was why Bossuet jumped out of his seat when Combeferre’s voice rang out in the Corinthe: “Fuck this fucking jackass with a fucking pitchfork. Who the fuck does he think he is?”

“Oh dear,” whispered Joly. “I think he had too much wine tonight.”

“Combeferre never overindulges. He takes moderation to extremes. He would man the barricades to defend peaceful discourse, and trample anything that stood between him and the golden mean.” Bossuet craned his neck to get a better look at what precisely had set Combeferre off. It appeared to be a journal of some kind. Combeferre was glaring at it as if the author had described, in loving detail, his private relations with Combeferre’s mother.

“What do you suppose it says?” Joly looked half-alarmed, half-delighted, and no wonder. It was a rare treat to see Combeferre so ruffled.

“Combeferre,” Bossuet called out. He had to repeat himself before Combeferre looked up.

“Hmm?” Combeferre sounded more like himself now, gentle and slightly abstracted.

“Would you be so kind as to enlighten us about the identity of the ‘fucking jackass’ you were excoriating a few moments ago?”

“Oh.” Combeferre frowned. “This arrogant ignoramus has written a denunciation of Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire’s theory of the unity of plan. It is plain at a glance that he fails to grasp Saint-Hilaire’s arguments for transcendental anatomy, or the basis of his classification system, or—”

“Unity of _what_ plan?” Bossuet hissed under his breath to Joly, as Combeferre went on.

“I don’t know!”

“You’re the medical student!”

“And you’re the law student. Explain to me how Roman law would have disposed of a case wherein—”

“I concede your point,” Bossuet said hurriedly. “What’s this transcendental anatomy, then? Some of human anatomy seems positively transcendental in the proper context, but somehow I doubt that’s what Combeferre is referring to—”

“—and he is simply parroting Cuvier without even understanding him!” Combeferre finished, thumping his palm on the table for emphasis.

“Hear, hear,” said Joly unconvincingly. “Still, you sounded more worked up about this poor benighted fool than you do about ultras—or Bonapartist democrats, for that matter.”

Combeferre blushed. “I was trying an experiment.”

“To see if your sweetly reasonable mouth would consent to form such abusive words?” Bossuet supposed he was being obnoxious, but felt unable to repress himself.

“To see if using such expressions would vent my rage, and so get rid of it,” Combeferre said, ignoring the mockery.

“And did it?” Joly’s face was suddenly bright with real curiosity. “Do you feel calmer now?” 

“My wrath runs as deep as my sense of right, I fear,” Combeferre said lightly, looking away, “and cursing won’t suffice to soothe it.”


End file.
